Ask Erik
by my-echo
Summary: Inspired by cyberwulf's Ask William and Dear Denethor. Having troubles? Need a confidante? Let the Phantom of the Opera offer up some sagely sarcastic advice.
1. Leroux

**A/N: Each chapter/installment will be written from the pen of a different Erik, beginning with Leroux. Hopefully in the future I'll be able to see and read some other famous film or book versions of POTO and be able to write installments accordingly, but until then, you'll just have to be content with the few that I have already come up with. Those should be written and posted within the next few days.**

**Oh, and I really don't want to get any flak about someone being slightly out-of-character, or the occasional use of an anachronism (reference to something too modern for the historical setting). If this occurs, it is for purely humorous purposes. It's not as though any of this is meant to be serious. It's all just for fun...and I hope you enjoy it.**

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_Leroux_

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Dear O.G., 

I have a singularly distressing problem. There is an unfathomably hideous, insane male personage (whom I believe may have bipolar disorder) who alternately worships at my feet and makes frightening threats, and insists upon marrying me. I do not return his affections, and my love is bestowed upon another man. However, I pity him deeply, and besides that, am afraid that if I leave as planned with my lover, he will go mad and cause untold chaos and destruction. But I cannot love him, no matter how I attempt to look past his dreadful ugliness and odd little quirks! He repulses me beyond all reason! What am I to do?

Soprano Scared Stiff, Paris, France

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My dear Christine,

How nice to hear from you.

Now, about this man, whose genius is unmatched in matters of musical and architectural prowess, and could probably strangle the life out of your little lover in less time than it would take him to count his feet.

He is obviously infatuated with you, and, to his gross error, trusted that your affections were true instead of false. You dare to spurn his desperate love for that of a puling sailor lad and, not only that, insult your generous benefactor in broad daylight and confess to your simpering little lover that you have been putting on an elegant farce of feigned love when you (cough) _thought_ said benefactor was not watching or listening? Oh, very well-played, Mademoiselle He-Is-Working-On-His-Don-Juan-And-Not-Thinking-Of-Us.

HA!

Go back to him at once and demand his pardon. Perhaps he will spare your lover's life, though he may still torture him within an inch of it, and perhaps he will grant you the option of celibacy after you consent to marry him—and you _will_ consent to marry him, or you are quite right, the consequences would be disastrous.

You are due for a singing lesson, by-the-by. And don't think for a moment that I _don't_ know that you lost my plain gold ring and are planning to abandon me after your performance for Monsieur Is-My-Cravat-In-The-Right-Place.

Fondly yours,

Erik

* * *

Dear O.G., 

I can't get one solitary lay in this godforsaken opera-house, and on top of that, I've been seeing this awful apparition about, the ugliest thing anyone's ever set eyes on. People say it's the devil, but I say it's you.

Any truth to the rumors? And how can I get me some ripe female companionship?

Frustrated Fix-It Man, Palais Garnier, Paris, France

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My dear Buquet,

Of course it is me. You'll pay dearly for that little remark. As to where you may come across the willing embrace of a nubile young lady, did you know that there is a secret harem of drunken women in the third cellar of the Opera that you may copulate with for free? Simply roll back the stone behind the set piece of the _Roi de Lahore_ and drop right in!

Be sure to tell them I sent you.

Your Obdt. Servant, O.G.

* * *

Dear O.G., 

I cannot seem to get that infernal fiend, Erik, out of my mind! He kidnaps my Christine nearly every fortnight and forces her to look upon his hideous visage whilst proclaiming his awful declarations of love—as if he is actually capable of love! What a monster that man is—as if he is actually a man!

If I ever manage to get my hands on him, I shall break every bone in his skeletal body!

What say you to all this?

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Dear simpering little sailor lad of the house _de Chagny,_

I hate you.

Also, thank you for sending me such an amusing little note. My favorite part was your supremely empty threat. What an absolutely delightful imagination you have, my boy!

Firstly, I would have a Punjab noose around your lily-white little neck before you could utter one single high-pitched, effeminate, testosterone-deprived scream; Secondly, you would never see it coming. Ever.

Thirdly, I am going to marry Christine whether you like it or not. But do go ahead and try to prevent it! Such a delightful display would provide me no end of amusement, especially were I to lead you on a merry chase around the catacombs and "accidentally" get you locked in a Communard dungeon, where no one ever comes, and no one ever hears you, and your pitiful, testosterone-deprived screams would be as pointedly useless as an armored fly.

Evilly awaiting your response,

Erik

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Deaer Erick, 

Onse and 4 all, _waht on earth_ is you're lastt namme?

Pleas ansewr!

Phrustrated Phan, Pottsville, Pennsylvania

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My not-so-dear Phuturistic Phanbrat,

You can rest assured that (at least in MY little corner of canon) it is certainly not "Destler," "Noir," "Claudin," "Bonsoir," "Noir," "Daae," "Giry," "Noir," and above all, NOT—I repeat, NOT—"Gerard" or "Rossum."

Painphully phed up with your stupid phanmail,

Erik No-Last-Name

P.S. By the way, did you know that Gerard Butler!Erik secretly lives in a cave on the third cellar? Just move the stone behind that set-piece and drop right in!

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Esteemed Noseless Monsieur, 

Look, I know we've had some disagreements, but I'm willing to put those to rest. You, however, seem intent upon making my life a living hell.

Why on EARTH did you tell that phanbrat that I was living in the third cellar?

Not Amused,

Your Handsomer Spin-Off, Palais Garnier, Cellar 3, In the Spider-Covered Corner

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Ah, my good friend Gerik--that _is_ your name, isn't it?

I hate you. You don't really believe that you're my good friend at all, do you? Because you aren't, and don't dare delude yourself for a split second otherwise.

Also, I didn't believe for a moment that she would actually _find_ you, though I suppose I should have guessed (but in that case, I would have sent her there anyway). You seem to have an insatiably disgusting desire for young ladies sixteen and under, which I assume led you to actually _reveal_ yourself and attempt to make her acquaintance before you discovered to your detriment that she was one of what we like to call those "other types".

At least I always set my sights on twenty and up. And Christine, no less. Only Christine. _You _seem to instantly adore anything bipedal with shapely breasts. Better be careful in the bars, _monsieur._ God knows you might accidentally find yourself saddled with, shall we say, a stemmed apple rather than a juicy peach. And it will probably turn out to be Raoul. Fanfiction writers will do anything these days.

At any rate, that little brat was supposed to have dropped into the torture-chamber. If you had any sense, you would have thrown her in yourself.

But _no,_ Monsieur I'm-So-Ugly-While-Being-Disgustingly-Handsome, Monsieur I-Have-The-Base-Nerve-To-Call-Myself-An-Erik, Monsieur Obvious-Scottish-Accent-Which-I-Tried-To-Flatten-Unsuccessfully! You continue to be a raving idiot. If it weren't for the fact that you are possessed with astonishing powers of reflex, I would have killed you by now. God knows I've tried.

By the way, you belong in 1870. In a made-up Opera House. I suggest you go _there_ instead of skulking about _here_, where someone is liable to mistake you for a grotty dandy.

Cordially,

The _Real_ O.G.

* * *

My dear Sir, 

You may or may not know me as The Other Living Corpse.

Despite your apparently being the original, I am very seriously of the educated opinion that I may, in fact, be a bit uglier than you, monsieur. Enclosed is a colored-ink self-portrait upon which I spent a good half-hour or so last night, and which you may use to judge for yourself.

Do come and see me if you have any doubts. Perhaps we might have a drink and compare our woeful experiences with the human race.

Respectfully,

Your Fellow Noseless O.G., In Another Dimension of Paris, France

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My dear Kerik (or Kay!Erik, if you prefer, or simply Erik, for that matter, but we must differentiate, now mustn't we),

How splendid to hear from you, my good man! I wondered when you might get around to sending me some sort of correspondence.

I must admit you raised my hackles slightly at your claim, but after careful consideration, I concede the point. If that self-portrait is correct, I grudgingly admit that you are, indeed, a bit uglier than I, though I would like to see you in person to be quite assured.

I have done some research on you, monsieur. Besides your wonderfully hideous visage, you have a tragic history, quite heart-ripping, to say the least. And you are still a virgin, a shocking revelation. I am sorry for you.

Now, don't tell anyone, least of all my dear Christine, but I am not, in fact, without the occasional romp in a bed of ill-repute. The secret is to not let them remove your mask. Pretend it is for the purpose of withholding identification. Most ladies of the evening are prudent enough to accept this without question. As for the fear of disease or the fathering of a child, well, that's what a rubber is for, old boy. Damned uncomfortable little things, but ever so convenient.

At any rate, at least you have sufficient entitlement to the name and identity of Erik, unlike that simpering little half-masked twit with the Apollo tan and the voice of a rusty saw. I suggest we band together and kill him. Two of us could no doubt overwhelm those astoundingly quick reflexes of his.

All in all, the prospect of a Fellow Noseless O.G. is far too delightful to ignore. Drop by this dimension sometime. We'll have tea. Do you prefer cream or lemon?

Sincerely,

Your New _Ami_


	2. Kay

**A/N: For those of you who took the last chapter a bit too seriously as far as discrepancies and a slight bit of OOCness, and sent me disgruntled PMs and reviews and whatnot, be reminded that any and all of that sort of thing is usually on purpose to make you laugh. A lot of the time, too, I'm just parodying an idea that someone else has had. For example, the idea that Leroux!Erik is not a virgin is an idea that's been kicked around by a lot of the more intellectual Leroux theorists, and the fact that I included it doesn't mean that I personally hold that view (I've always been of the mind that he _is_ quite sexually inexperienced, in fact, but the idea that he isn't makes for some good parodying). And the Christine discrepancy that Jungle Julia and a few others mentioned…that was on purpose, believe it or not. (i.e., the idea is that Erik is either lying about his prowess with prostitutes or he is lying about only casting his eyes on Christine—as to which one it actually is, I don't have a preference. It was simply meant to be humorous, although upon reflection I understand completely how you mightn't have realized that and simply taken it for a mistake in continuity. I probably would have done the same as a reader.)**

**With that out of the way, on with the long-overdue Kay!Erik installment (which should hopefully please both lovers and dislikers/downright haters of that particular version). **

**Also, because of the largely prequel-like nature of the novel (the Opera Garnier years and the Christine incident only take up a relatively small portion at the very end), time may seem to jump around a bit as certain characters from Kay!Erik's past write him humorous letters. Take it with a grain of salt; this is a parody, after all, and I've already taken parodic liberties with the whole characters-being-aware-of-other-versions-of-themselves thing, so it shouldn't really surprise you.**

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_Kay_**

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Dear Erik,

My son, I miss you terribly, far greater than you can know. I cannot apologize enough for the horrible way in which I treated you in your childhood. But now I have repented, and I wish you to come home. Please say you will forgive me. I very much wish to see you again.

Sincerely,

Your Mother, Madeleine

Boscherville, France

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To Whom It May Concern:

Right.

Who is this _really?_

Not Sure How You Knew My Name or My Past,

Erik

P.S. This had _better _not be Mademoiselle Perrault.

* * *

Dear O.G.,

I seem to have an odd lookalike roaming about the Opera, a man who calls himself by the rather unimaginative name of "Nadir Khan" (it seems painfully obvious that he simply chose two Muslim names at random and stuck them haphazardly together to fashion what he supposed to be a "typical" Persian moniker, only adding to my outrage, but I suppose that is beside the point). At any rate, why do you suppose that this imposter is pretending to be myself, and what on earth am I to do about this dreadful situation? (Somehow I doubt that the gendarmes would be sympathetic.)

At Wit's End,

He Who Shall Remain Nameless

Opera Garnier, Paris, France

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My dear daroga,

The solution is simple. To him _you_ are the imposter (although I know of a good deal of frightful young women—and probably men, for that matter—who would probably mistake that well-intentioned remark for arrogance and, doubtless, wish to slit my throat for blasphemy).

I'll put it bluntly. You're in the wrong dimension. Go home.

Not In The Mood For Dealing With Confused Canon Characters,

The Other O.G.

P.S. Give my regards to that other Erik, would you, my good man? And if you have a problem with poor Nadir's name (which I completely understand, as from a purely theoretical standpoint I am sure I wouldn't exactly relish the idea of someone prancing about as me and calling themselves something inane like "Winslow"), I suggest you take it up with Susan Kay.

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Dear O.G.,

Ha-ha.

Demonically Plotting Swan's Demise,

The Phantom of the Paradise (aka Winslow)

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Dear Personage Whose Name I Refuse To Utter,

Have you traveled to the third cellar of the Opera Garnier lately? Lovely spot for hangi—er, picnics.

Cordially,

The Phantom of the One-Step-Away-From-Wringing-Your-Neck

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Dear Angel of Death,

I seem to be experiencing a midlife crisis. No man has ever denied my seductive charms until now. However, the man whom I currently desire seems to have no inclination whatsoever of my intentions; either that, or he is simply trying to spite me. I find him utterly irresistible, for he is the ugliest creature I have ever seen, and his hideousness arouses me most perversely. What do you suggest I do to bring him to my bed?

Sincerely,

Mother of the Glorious Shah

Mazenderan, Persia

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My dear Khanum,

Perhaps if you were not so inclined to torture innocent harem girls for sport and keep men's genitals on a shelf, the dubious object of your desire might be more inclined to accept your advances. And if it's really ugliness you're after, why don't you take up with a cave troll?

Nice Try,

Erik

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Meow Meowik,

Meow meow meow meow prrrow purr meow meow. Meow mew mee murrr purrr prrowow meow meow rrrow.

Mew?

Meowy meow,

Meowsha

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My darling Ayesha,

Don't try to write letters, my sweet. Your penmanship is atrocious. Though I suppose if I were writing with claws instead of digits, my scrawl might be just as illegible. (It already is quite bad, so don't expect me to give you any lessons, because I sorely doubt you would improve.)

There are some sardines for you in the kitchen. And remember, you will always be my little lady, no matter what the presence of Christine may make you think.

Fondly,

Erik

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Dear Erik,

You can kiss me any time you want to, hotcakes. Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow!

Eating Chocolate-Covered Cherries As We Speak,

Your Phuture Luver

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Dear Whoever-You-Are,

You'd be surprised how many of these I get a month. I keep them all in a drawer, because they make me laugh. I have a whole dresserful, can you believe that?

At any rate, I would take a random guess that you are small, petite, probably fourteen years of age, with a large bust and pouty lips. Or at least that's what your Mary-Sue will look like when she comes to plague me. My guess is that you yourself are so gawky that you have the breadth of a pancake, with buck teeth and a benignly cancerous acne on your charming little face. Oh, and you're fourteen years of age, of course. Perhaps fifteen or even thirteen.

Do you know what I'm going to do with your Mary-Sue, my little duckie? Do you? I'm going to ship her back to you in a box containing large amounts of nitroglycerine. Because you were actually foolish enough to provide me with your address.

Tired of Being A Gentleman To Those Who Don't Deserve It,

O.G.

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Dear Erik,

I seem to have an odd lookalike roaming about the Opera of late. He claims to be "the real daroga", though he refuses to give up any clue as to his identity (i.e. his name), and I am getting quite tired of his denouncing me as an "imposter." Is this some sort of practical joke?

Not Amused,

The Man With The Unimaginative Name

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My dear Nadir,

Don't be alarmed. I took care of it. Hopefully.

But if you see any oddly-dressed young women or men in the halls giving you murderous looks and holding something behind their backs, don't say I didn't warn you.

Sincerely,

Erik


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